


Get McWasted

by Vashoth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Apocalyptic AU, M/M, despite the title there is actually no drinking, its just a terrible pun, post nuclear winter, some of the omnics went mad and kinda function like zombies, the rating is for a teeny bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth/pseuds/Vashoth
Summary: Out in the Wastes, there wasn't a whole lot of room for error. There certainly wasn't room for competition.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madramaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madramaut/gifts).



> This one's for [Madramaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madramaut/pseuds/Madramaut), both here on Ao3 and on tumblr! You should go check out their art. It's fuckin' stunning. 
> 
> Thank you to [Lefty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lefthand/pseuds/lefthand) and [Tsol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorqui/pseuds/doctorqui) for betaing!!! Idk how you all do it so goddamn well and so goddamn fast. Blows my fuckin mind. Anyway, go read all their stuff and comment on everything because it's amazing af, trust me.

* * *

 

 

When the first of the bombs had hit the atmosphere above Montana, all hell had broken loose. First were the evacuations--official and otherwise. Hundreds of thousands of people fled south. There was a case of some guy getting actually trampled somewhere in south Wyoming. The radiation left a solemn stillness in the air that felt like the moment just before pins and needles in a limb that had fallen asleep. Except that split second stayed permanent, and took roost in the lungs of those that still dared to breathe the midwestern air after the bombing in Utah.

 

Of course everything official said that this was temporary. That the radiation in the air would dissipate like bad smoke, fading back onto the back burners of people’s minds and problems until no one batted an eye at the odd tumor or extra nose. The official announcements also insisted that the evacuations were temporary, and that the refugees ought to be treated with the utmost kindness.

 

They may as well have painted a symbol on the backs of the refugees that said ‘easy target’. Things like bottled water and rations became so rare outside of the Midwestern Wastes that some folks hoarded the stuff like gold. Old 1950s bunkers became trading posts for illicit goods and phrases like “smuggled canned corn” became uncomfortably common.

 

But really, nuclear winter wasn’t all so bad. Not as bad as he would have expected anyway. Aside from the scarcity problems, that is.

 

Most of the bombs had gone off in the atmosphere, rendering any form of satellite technology useless for the next few centuries. Aside from the midwest itself, very few mushroom clouds actually hit the ground.

 

Now the big difference was to be found in the omnics. Specifically the most recent models that stored their fancy programming in the cloud. As soon as satellites started falling from the sky like stars, anything hooked up to any kind of network started acting wonky. At first, all anyone noticed was the complete destruction of North America’s access to the internet. While the atmospheric bombs rained radiation harmful to people over the Midwest Wastes, the actual damage reached out a good ways over the Atlantic and Pacific both.

 

Near as McCree could figure, the closest thing you could get to a connection happened somewhere around Panama.

 

Closer you got to the bomb sites, the weirder shit got. Omnics programed to act as household assistants would scan their surroundings for anything that looked like an idle human face, constantly queuing up tasks from the nonsense code being spat out from their scrambled server remains. Meant that an omnic that was once able to give you the best hair-cut of your life was now just as liable to decapitate you where you stood.

 

The radioactive effect lessened like a gradient the further away from the damage sites you got, and the result was New Mexican roadways that were cluttered with broken down smart cars, crashed self-piloting planes, and the corpses of what once were the latest and greatest omnics. This metal scrap border was lovingly referred to as the Second Greatest Barrier Reef. Or ‘The Reef’, for short.

 

See, as radiation-mad omnics got closer to the border, their circuitry would transmit signals at random, wildly trying to reconnect to a legitimate command prompt. Any resemblance to their old selves was lost to the rust and decay in their sensors, and plating ripped off to swing as razor sharp weaponry. These were called the Reefers. Or at least, that’s what Jesse McCree called them. He hadn’t come across anyone yet who’d taken to the name, but he was pretty sure it would catch on.

 

He found himself about five miles short of the Reef, talking to a man just as desperate for food rations and water as the rest of the refugees, but some coin in his pocket was making him feel special.

 

“I don’t do this sort of thing,” the man explained. His hands were cracked and calloused. He looked somewhere in his sixties. McCree wondered if he was any older than forty. “Hire guns, I mean. Er--Mercenaries. Agents! Sorry, I don’t--”

 

“Hired gun is fine,” McCree blew a ring of smoke and pointed his finger at it like the barrel of a gun. He pushed his thumb down like a mock trigger, and the man behind the smoke ring flinched.

 

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” he mumbled, looking down at the table. “My wife would kill me if she knew.”

 

“Know what else’ll kill you?” McCree asked slow.

 

The man, impossibly, managed to pale further. “...You?”

 

“No,” McCree laughed. “Well, not for free. Ain’t nobody paid me to off you yet… what was it, Steve?”

 

“Stephen,” the man corrected. “With a ‘ph’.”

 

“Alright, Stephen-With-A-PH: you know what else’ll kill you?” McCree smushed the edge of his cigar in the bowl between them, rolling the extra ash off the tip. “Starvation. Dehydration. Hell, even the heat. And if you can’t afford me you sure as hell ain’t gonna be able to afford a hypertrain up n’ out.”  

 

“What?” The man--Stephen--scrambled to sit upright, frantically waving his hands and shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t want… No. I don’t need that stuff. I mean, I do, but--”

 

“Food n’ water?” McCree tilted his hat up. Part of him was a little disappointed. This would’ve been his hundredth supply run through the Midwest Wastes. The other part of him was curious. “You’re tellin’ me that you want me to risk life and limb, face thousands of Reefers, get myself a slightly larger than healthy dosage of radioactivity, and you don’t even want supplies out of it?”

 

“No!” Stephen barked, a little too loud. Then quieter, “No, no that’s not it.”

 

McCree leaned back, lifting long legs to rest his boots on the wooden booth bench close to Stephen. The man flinched away from him like he was likely to bite somehow and McCree grinned, gesturing for him to continue.

 

“It’s a family heirloom,” he explained, voice low. “Worth millions.”

 

“And you want me to retrieve it for chump change?” McCree was unimpressed. “You better be payin’ higher than--”

 

“It’s my grandmother’s ring,” he interrupted. “My wife used to polish it and set it in a cloth jewelry box each night before bed. She kept it on the nightstand next to our bed, and would put it on in the morning before she woke me up. Said she never wanted me to see her without it.”

 

McCree wondered if the rest of the patrons felt the same drop in the mood. Maybe that was what caused that sudden inexplicable bad taste in your mouth when you went out to have a good time. Some fella nearby bringing up his dead wife’s ring ceremonies.

 

“And I just…” He made a helpless gesture. “My daughter met someone. Special lady, y’know? Really thinks the world of her.”

 

McCree hummed in the back of his throat. “And you want your daughter to have it.”

 

Stephen nodded, looking sadly at the table surface. He traced a finger idly along the cracks in the wood, picking at the varnish. “I shouldn’t be here.”

 

“No, you should not be,” a new voice said, behind McCree. A man with long dark hair and a thick accent propped himself up on the top of the booth divider, arms crossed in front of him. He had a heavy looking recurve bow slung over his shoulder and enough arrows in his quiver that it had to be more than an aesthetic. McCree took off his hat and tilted his head  back to get a better look at him.

 

“But if the cowboy does not take your offer, come see me,” the new guy said solemnly. “I will help you where he fails to.”

 

“Now hold on just a tick, darlin’,” McCree growled. “I didn’t say nothin’ about turning down the job or any sort of failin’, y’hear me? Just like to get the details sorted out ‘fore I go crossing the Reef. I don’t do this shit for kicks.”

 

“Could have fooled me,” The dark haired man said blithely.

 

McCree choked on the smoke in his mouth and sat up, sputtering.

 

“It’s in Colorado. Base of the Rockies. Or, where the Rockies used to be,” Stephen corrected himself, as he got ahead of himself in excitement. “We used to have a little log cabin out there, before… Well. Before.”

 

McCree whistled low, and even the strange intruder winced.

 

“That’s a long way off for somethin’ that ain’t supplies, partner.” He said warningly. “What ‘sactly are you offerin’ for my troubles?”

 

“You’ll take it then?” Stephen sat forward excitedly. His eyes glimmered. “I can write down the address--”

 

McCree’s mechanical arm shot out and grabbed him by the wrist before he could get anything written down. “Unwise, friend. You said that ring was worth millions.”

 

“Yeah,” Stephen nodded. “Actual diamond.”

 

“And you are entrusting this to a man dressed as a cowboy?” The dark haired man grumbled behind Jesse.

 

“Best leave that knowledge to memory. Don’t want no one getting their hands on it if something goes wrong,” McCree explained, ignoring the comment. “Omnic or human alike, it’ll lead’em right to it. Then you’ll never see that sucker again.”

 

Stephen’s mouth pursed into a small ‘o’. His fingers tapped against the wood and his brow furrowed.

 

“You think there’s a chance you might not make it back?” He asked quietly.

 

McCree gave him a wry grin. “There’s always a chance. M’pretty good though, if I do say so myself.”

 

The man behind them was just lowering back to his own seat when Stephen piped up, a wicked glint in his eye that McCree did not like one bit. “Then I’ll hire both of you. To get the ring, i mean.”

 

The cigar dropped out of McCree’s mouth this time, and he snatched it up quickly before it hit his pant leg or burned a hole in his chaps.

 

“‘Scuse me?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Stephen pointed at the both of them. “Mister McCree is rumoured to be the best around, but I recognize you as well, Mister Shimada.”

 

“I ain’t splittin’ the payout,” McCree growled. “I’m out.”

 

“Didn’t say you would have to,” Stephen shrugged. “I’m offering the same amount the ring is worth. Nothing more, nothing less. But, only to the first person to bring it back.”

 

“The hell makes you think I’ll take that kind of chance?” McCree narrowed his eyes at Stephen.

 

The man--Mr. Shimada, apparently--snorted. “It would hardly be a competition.”

 

McCree nodded before the words sunk in. “Now hold on, I meant--”

 

“Five million,” Stephen interrupted them. “First to bring it back gets five million.”

 

Both men quieted.

 

“So?” Stephen asked nervously. “Do we have a deal?”

 

McCree eyed Shimada and wondered if it would be poor sportsmanship to just shoot him then and there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, there weren’t actually too many ways to get to the location Stephen had written down for them. He wasn’t kidding either, when he’d said it was remote. And it was in just an odd enough angle from where they started near the Reef that the route available was one that McCree didn’t recognize. An oddity in and of itself and goddamn uncomfortable for the situation at hand.

 

Both men had trekked out immediately, pushing past the Reef and slipping around the tall rock formations that scattered across the New Mexican wastes. Shimada kept to the high ground, scouting and leaping across cliffs like some kind of fucking acrobat whereas McCree stayed low. He moved under the arching rock, and slid around the edges of the sand dunes. The shadows cast by the peaks of the dunes appeared soft as they interwove with the thin stretched lines sprouting from the base of the rocks, but all of it faded together slow and simple as the sun set.

 

Even after thousands of years of pollution--even after the nuclear war--the stars above the Wastes shone bright like a flashlight held behind pin-prick holes covering vibrant dark blue cloth. What with Shimada always near, McCree found himself staring up more often than usual. The distraction was sort of nice in the same way that playing ‘I spy’ on a roadtrip could make the time go faster, but the ache in his legs still spread across his abdomen and crept up under his shoulder blades.

 

But instead of camping, McCree pushed further. His eyes would slide from the horizon line to check on Shimada--still pushing forward relentlessly. So he picked up his pace. He wasn’t gonna lose to some guy he’d never even heard of.

 

By the time the first wave of radiation-mad omnics settled comfortably in the middle of  his path, McCree had pushed two hours past when he should’ve made camp. He saw the dotted lights of green and blue and red glowing from the distance like fireflies. The movement was erratic and unmistakable and the canyon he was passing through brokered no room for variation in his route. So he scaled the side of it as best he could, digging his metal arm into the rock face like he meant to break off a chunk, and stayed pressed flat against the face of it, silently watching the horde pass him by as Shimada’s silhouette shrank smaller against the night sky.

 

Maybe it was the exhaustion in his bones speaking louder than his good sense, but McCree really ought to have known better than to drop down from his hiding spot with the grace of a fucking stone. The slam against the rocky ground sounded sharp and loud, echoing through the walls of stone and rattling his jaw. The lights that had passed him stopped. Jesse froze in place, trying not to breathe too loudly. His pulse hammered from his ears to his fingertips. The blinking lights focused on him.

 

“Shit,” McCree hissed, taking off as fast as he could down the canyon passage.

 

The sound of metal clanked and clattered behind him as the omnics gave chase, beeping and whirring mixed with the odd nonsense phrase, shouted or hummed at various volumes, each bouncing off the rock wall towards him like a threat. Straight ahead, the canyon levelled out and he could see the blue of the sky tucked between the great walls of rock. He ignored the screams wanting to rip from his muscles and stretched out lungs, and pushed.

 

At least he would catch up to Shimada faster this way.

 

The blue drew closer, but so did the omnics. Despite the erratic movement, they kept good pace, slowly closing the gap between them and the gunslinger. He could hear the screech of metal on metal, knew the desperation in their movements as deadly. It was the little dot of golden red that touched just to the bottom left of the column of sky that he didn’t expect.

 

They were too far away from civilization proper. There was no Reef out here to collect defective omnics ready to collapse into junk. There wasn’t even an abandoned town to occupy. Just more sand. It had to be more omnics, he thought, heart pounding out its protest in his throat.

 

McCree’s hand landed on his gun and he had it drawn, safety off in seconds. He shot some preliminary rounds behind him to thin out the crowd and caught one of the machines where it was thickest, pleased to see the sparks of electricity fly out of the wound. Battery acid leaked bright green from the metal and dripped onto the sand, the omnic slowing until the rest of the herd had engulfed it completely. Maybe twenty. Twenty-five omnics, at most.

 

He grit his teeth, and took out another three before he reloaded, stumbling and swearing loud when an ammo shell slipped past his fingers. He looked over his shoulder, tempted to spare the few steps back for it, but watched as one of the low flying drones swooped down and snatched the clip off the ground like prey, dragging it into its core and crushing it. McCree pushed more energy into his legs, willing himself to move faster and aimed the barrel of his gun towards the rapidly approaching blue, tilting the tip of it towards the flickering orange.

 

When he rounded the corner, he had his left eye shut and the hammer pulled back, ready to let loose. But instead of seeing another group of omnics, he saw Shimada staring at him in surprise, next to a bonfire that looked… well, pretty cozy.

 

 _Oh,_ McCree thought. _Well, shit._

 

Shimada’s mouth fell open and his brows furrowed like he was going to snap something particularly nasty, but McCree cut him off first.

 

“Omnics,” McCree panted, pointing his gun down the canyon. He shot a couple while he was looking and started jogging again. He called over his shoulder, “Would move, if I were you!”

 

He barely heard the startled noise the other man made, already picking up distance. But Shimada caught up like it was nothing and again, McCree was a little more annoyed than he ought to have been.

 

“What did you do to attract so much attention? Was this _intentional?_ ” Shimada yelled at him as they ran. His eyes widened with realization, then narrowed on McCree suspiciously.  “Were you trying to lead them to me--?”

 

“No!” McCree snapped. “Just fuckin. Tired. Should’a camped hours ago--”

 

“Why did you not?”

 

McCree waved an exasperated hand towards the other man. “You were ahead of me and--”

 

“Hardly surprising.”

 

“Yeah, _that,_ ” McCree glowered. “ _That_ is why.”

 

Shimada’s hair had been let down from his tight ponytail and flew out behind him as they ran. His bow was still slung over his shoulder, and his arrows rattled as they moved. The archer’s hand around the ends of them only did so much to muffle the racket. McCree didn’t know how he wasn’t fuckin’ freezing with his whole goddamn tit out like some kind of--

 

“Do you have a plan?” Shimada interrupted his thoughts.

 

“Well, Shimada-san--”

 

“Hanzo.”

 

“Stop fuckin’ interruptin’ me, _Hanzo,_ ” McCree bit out. Hanzo looked unimpressed. “I didn’t really plan on gettin’ chased by a fuckin’ herd of--”

 

“So you have no plan.”

 

“We need to split up,” McCree talked over him, ignoring the suspicious glare. “They can’t follow us both. Well, they can, but. They’ll have to thin out to do it.”

 

“And if they split up to follow us both?”

 

“Then I can handle a small crowd jus’ fine,” McCree shot him a grin that was wide and wild. He held up his gun meaningfully. “Why? You _scared?_ ”

 

Hanzo snorted, then raced ahead, ducking to the right of one of the rocks jutting out from the sand. McCree took the hint and turned sharply left. The clanking behind him quieted, but he didn’t risk slowing down to look until he could barely hear the jarring scrape of metal on metal. Three of the herd had followed him, and the rest had gone after Hanzo. The archer was moving in a way that was decidedly more panicked--visible even from a distance--and McCree tried to ignore the awful rumbling that prodded at him from underneath his heart.

 

“Aw, _hell,_ ” McCree pulled back the hammer and shot the three omnics that followed him simple as anything, before charging after the archer.

 

He didn’t have to get terribly close to catch the attention of some of the slower bots at the back of the crowd, and started picking them off like flies. Hanzo shot a wary glance at him, like he was expecting this to somehow also be a trick, but McCree focused on shooting.

 

Wasn’t til he thinned out the herd significantly that Hanzo finally took the bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow. He spun around in his tracks, and let the arrow fly after a split second, watching it puncture through the chestplate of an old service-bot and curve up to wreck the spinning blades on the old drone. Both went down hard.

 

McCree whistled low. “Pretty handy with that bow.”

 

“It is not,” Hanzo started, lining up another shot on the remaining bot that staggered towards him with deadly precision. McCree couldn’t have been sure, but he was just about positive that Hanzo actually shot the fucking motherboard right out of the bot’s central circuitry with how fast it dropped. Hanzo took a deep breath, slinging the bow back over his shoulder with a smug look. “It is not for decoration.”

 

“Could’a fooled me,” McCree drawled. He fished in his pockets for a cigar and lit up, taking a few puffs to get the fire going and pulled in the smoke deep, despite the lingering ache in his lungs. “Ain’t often you see somethin’ so eye-catchin’ that does more than just stand around lookin’ pretty.”

 

Hanzo looked pleased.

 

They stood there, shuffling awkwardly, waiting for the other to move, to speak, to shoot--anything. McCree cleared his throat and took off his hat so he could run a hand through his hair.

 

“You still gonna keep movin’ tonight?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

 

Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest and wow, that tattoo was really nice. McCree carefully kept his eyes on Hanzo’s face. “And why would that concern you?”

 

McCree shrugged helplessly. “Ain’t gonna let you get the lead on me. Also ain’t gonna pretend m’not tired as shit. ”

 

The archer snorted. “Then why would I tell you?”

 

“Was worth a shot, wasn’t it?” McCree shrugged again, and let out a sigh. “I’m tryin’ to play nice. Fair game, and all that.”

 

Hanzo looked at him curiously, head tilted to the side and bottom lip jutted out just slightly as he mulled something over. McCree could practically hear the gears turning in his mind and tried not to let how tired he was really show on his face.

 

“I will camp now, McCree,” Hanzo said finally. He shrugged off his bow, and started messing with the strap attached to his quiver. He looked up at McCree and McCree realized he’d been staring. “I am telling you this in the interest of ‘playing nice.’ Do not assume I am any less--”

 

“Nah, nah, I gotcha,” McCree waved his mechanical hand and did not miss the way Hanzo’s eyes followed it. “Still competin’. I know.”

 

Hanzo laid out his bow and arrows next to where he sat, shielded from the worst of the night wind by the the tall, thin stretch of rock that curved over them like a claw. He paused, shooting McCree a wary look before shimmying down onto his side and curling his knees close to his chest. If McCree’s eyes were any less sharp, he would’ve missed the shiver that Hanzo tried to suppress.

 

And maybe it was the pouty lips. Or the big brown eyes that stared at him lazily, still with that hint of predatory precision he’d seen when the archer was shooting. Maybe it was the way he curled in on himself, fully expecting to remain as such. Whatever it was, McCree found himself sighing and unwrapping his serape from around his shoulders. He trudged over to Hanzo and slid down to the ground close to him. The archer pushed himself up on one elbow, looking a bit alarmed, and McCree ignored him in favour of throwing the thick red fabric over them both.

 

“Why--?”

 

“Because s’gonna drop in temperature more during the night and I’m tryin’ to play fair, remember?” McCree said. “Plus, this way I’ll know before you’re even standin’ if you try to sneak away and get a headstart.”

 

Hanzo snorted. He pulled a hand up to cover his mouth and honest to god looked surprised at the chuckle that fell out. McCree couldn’t help but grin back lazily. “Ain’t no point in pushing the competition ‘fore we even find the damn thing, yeah?”

 

“Mm,” Hanzo nodded, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Sound advice from a man afraid of losing. Getting tired, gunslinger?”

 

“Not a chance,” McCree said through a yawn. “It’s Jesse, by the way.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You said to call you Hanzo,” McCree waved a hand lazily. “Call me Jesse.”

 

Hanzo’s expression was unreadable, and the intensity of his stare made McCree glad that he kept his gaze locked on the stars above them.

 

“Alright,” Hanzo said quietly. “Thank you, Jesse.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jesse snorted. “Still plan on kickin’ your ass and gettin’ that reward.”

 

Hanzo’s grin was sly, lips curled up at the corners and really it was a mistake for McCree to let his eyes slide over to look at the face that was far too close to his own. Up close, he could see the length of Hanzo’s lashes and where the ends of his tattoo crept up towards his collarbone. With the tattooed arm bent under his head, Hanzo’s dark hair was splayed out, tips just barely touching the sandy ground. But McCree’s eyes lingered on those lips, full and sinful around the smile in a way that really wasn’t fair.

 

“You may plan all you like, Jesse,” Hanzo’s voice was low. McCree’s jaw clenched, and he swallowed thickly. He wondered briefly if asking Hanzo to call him by his first name was the best or worst decision he’d ever made. “It will not change the outcome.”

 

“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Jesse said with more confidence than he felt.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up hot, feeling the heat of the sun across his cheek and the press of something warm and soft against his chest. He heard something that hummed a little ways away, presumably what woke him, and groaned. He pressed his nose back into the softness, mechanical arm curling tight around the figure he held close. Sharp grains of sun-soaked sand scrubbed at his cheek when he moved.

 

McCree’s eyes flashed open just in time to recognize the humming of the drone flying closer. He reached behind himself to grab his gun and had it levelled at the bot in seconds. Hanzo’s bare back sat up in front of him, muscles taut as he pulled back the bowstring and aimed his own weapon.

 

The way the morning light touched on Hanzo’s skin made him look fake--like a painting. Sleep mussed hair curled and bent every which way, the tufts of frizz more puffed up even than usual. He couldn’t see the expression on the archer’s face, but his skin still looked sleep soft and it was hard to imagine the same intense focus and precision that pulled his brows and lips tight with tension.

 

“Best shot wins,” McCree challenged, voice low and predatory as the drone flew closer.

 

Hanzo glanced over his shoulder and _wow_ , McCree’s aim faltered slightly before he brought up his mechanical arm to steady his line of sight. He focused instead on the drone, humming growing louder. Hanzo’s lips quirked up at the corners just slightly before he pulled back his arrow properly.

 

“On three,” Hanzo said. McCree ignored the hoarseness in the archer’s voice.

 

“On three,” Jesse agreed.

 

“One,” Hanzo muttered, the recurve bow shifting just a little. He adjusted his weight, and Jesse couldn’t help but watch the muscles on his back move as he did. He wanted to lean forward and bite--

 

“Two,” Hanzo’s voice came like a warning. McCree’s eyes snapped back onto the target.

 

“Three,” they said together.

 

Peacekeeper went off simultaneous to the whizz of Hanzo’s arrow flying and really, the drone didn’t stand a chance. Hanzo pushed up to his feet and McCree swallowed back an embarrassing sound of protest. He sat, still partially under the cover of his serape and grabbed for his hat. He dusted the sand off the edges before putting it back on his head, he comfort of the shade immediately became apparent and he could feel his already sun-kissed face cool with relief.

 

Hanzo sauntered back, the armoured leggings he kept on over intricate boots hugging his sides tightly, and McCree watched his hips sway as he moved. Hanzo’s focus was on the drone he held gingerly in his hands. A single arrow shaft split the thing right down the middle, with the hooked top of it spearing wires and circuitry out of the back panelling. The archer’s dark eyes scanned the surface of it methodically and Jesse made a half-assed attempt at peering the surface to see if he could follow Hanzo’s gaze.

 

He stopped in front of him, tilting the drone on it’s side so that Jesse could see without getting up. One partially gloved hand pointing at the bullet hole that sat maybe a centimeter and a half away from the arrow shaft. The arrow was undeniably more centered than the bullet. Jesse looked back up at Hanzo’s face and found him smirking.

 

“What do I win?” Hanzo asked.

 

The sunrise behind him outlined him in brilliant streaks of red and gold, and Jesse took a moment to soak in the sight. He dragged his eyes over the planes of Hanzo’s stomach, down his strong thighs and long legs, marvelling openly at the shape of him. When he finally met the man’s eyes again, they were half-lidded and darkened. The smirk had faded but the way his lips curled up pleasantly gave Jesse a second wind of bravery.

 

He pulled the serape away from himself, and pushed himself up to his knees. He shuffled closer, gently taking the still-warm drone from Hanzo’s grip, letting his fingers slide over the archer’s as he did so. The sharp intake of breath did not go unnoticed.

 

The drone was discarded, set in the sand without another thought to rot with the rest of the radiation-mad machinery scattered across the Wastes. But Jesse? Jesse’s hands fell on those hips, thumbs circling and pressing along Hanzo’s hipbones and dipping just a little lower. Hanzo stilled like he worried he would spook Jesse--neither leaning into the touch nor moving away. Jesse looked up at the archer through his lashes and grinned before nosing a line along the increasingly obvious outline of Hanzo’s cock.

 

“I can think of a few things, if you’re willin’ to get creative,” Jesse hummed.

 

Hanzo’s wry smile was back and he pushed his hand through Jesse’s hair encouragingly. “And what of our competition?”

 

“What ‘bout it?” Jesse batted his lashes innocently. Hanzo looked like he was going to respond with something terribly clever, but Jesse put a stop to that by mouthing hot and needy presses of his lips along Hanzo’s tip, savouring the breathy moan it earned him.

 

Hanzo’s head tipped back and his grip in Jesse’s hair tightened. The look he gave the gunslinger was worth almost getting torn to pieces by omnics. “I thought you were interested in fair play.”

 

“Emphasis on _play_ , darlin’.” Jesse winked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The greatest tragedy of the nuclear winter, Jesse had decided, was a tie between two things:

 

First, that the Wastes were overwhelmingly populated by omnics that frequently interrupted their mornings with inconsiderate attempts to kill them.

 

Or second, that no one else but Jesse was around to hear the beautiful goddamn music Hanzo could make when he played him just right.

 

The second option, Jesse thought selfishly, doubled as the best thing about the nuclear winter. He had never been particularly great with sharing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Thirty-eight,” McCree called, grinning over his shoulder at Hanzo. “If you want, we can just go ahead and call it now. Wouldn’t want’cha to get too embarrassed.”

 

Hanzo huffed, letting another arrow fly into the heart of an old all-terrain turret unit. It sparked and crackled as the lights dimmed. “Thirty-two.”

 

McCree laughed.

 

Hanzo grumbled something and McCree turned just in time to catch the last bit of it--something in Japanese? Blue energy lifted off Hanzo’s tattoo like smoke and spiralled out along the shaft of the arrow, growing larger and larger as it circled. When Hanzo let the arrow fly, two dragons roared out of the blue mist, jaws snapping around the mid-sections of the enemies Hanzo had grouped together.

 

Jesse could do nothing but hold onto his hat as the twin dragons swept through the desert like a cyclone.

 

When they dissipated into the air, Jesse could barely hear Hanzo’s voice over the static that had taken over his brain, or the thump of his heartbeat in his ears. He stared, eyes wide at Hanzo’s smug expression.

 

“Forty-three,” Hanzo said, just as casual as anything.

 

Jesse barked out a laugh, and looked again at the wreckage. “Hot damn, darlin’.”

 

“Yeah?” Hanzo’s smile was a little bashful and McCree caught the way he looked down at his feet for just a moment.

 

“Yeah,” McCree repeated, a little surprised at the sincerity in his own voice.

 

Hanzo gave him a curious look. But as soon as he slung the bow over his shoulder, the reverie was broken and McCree shook himself free of his daze to go collect scrap metal that he could melt down into ammo.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

The ring was beautiful. He didn’t have to have a taste for jewelry to know that. Thin gold cords twined together, weaving intricate patterns that reminded McCree of vines. They swirled together at the center, presenting a small diamond wrapped in the gold like a flower amongst thorns. It was beautiful, alright.

 

But McCree knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t look away from the man holding it.

 

Hanzo frowned at the piece like it had personally offended him, and looked to Jesse warily. This was when the competition started. Or was supposed to start. They both knew that.

 

Jesse McCree, the idiot that he was, waved off Hanzo’s concern with a friendly smile.

 

“We still got miles to go before we’re anywhere close to the boss-man,” he explained. “Ain’t no point in scrappin’ over it now.”

 

Hanzo swallowed and McCree followed the line of his throat as he did, relished the dark marks he could still find at the base. It still lit a fire in his gut unlike any other, but his heart panged uncomfortably against his ribs too.

 

 _Shit,_ Jesse thought. _Well, shit._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Reef was in sight when it sank in. Hanzo had been fidgety all week, ducking touch and avoiding eye contact as best as he could manage. They’d gone an entire fight with a small troop of omnics without exchanging a single word. When an arrow pierced the last of them, McCree squashed the urge to make some kind of joke about penetration. Hanzo’s eyes had flashed to meet his expectantly, then darted away again guiltily.

 

McCree looked at the pouch hanging from Hanzo’s belt. The one that held the ring. The gun in his hand felt a little too heavy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were outside the tavern and it was no longer avoidable. Hanzo’s hand touched on the pouch, and his grip on his bow was nervous. McCree could see the way his forearm flexed as he clenched and relaxed his grip. His eyes were cast downward, lips pursed like he was still looking for the right words.

 

“If you are going to do it, now is your last chance,” Hanzo said quietly.

 

The night sky above them offered no shelter from the words, no stone to break the wind of them and McCree felt that godawful pang again. The gun at his side was heavy and his fingers twitched above the grip. He pulled it out of it’s holster and in one smooth motion had the barrel of it pointed at Hanzo’s head, his mechanical hand tapping back the hammer. Hanzo’s bow was drawn, the tip of his arrow aligned perfectly.

 

McCree could see the strain in his muscles. Knew he couldn’t keep the arrow nocked and fully drawn for much longer than eight seconds. Knew that Hanzo was aware McCree knew this--that Hanzo had to shoot now or he’d leave himself wide open. That McCree would have to shoot first, or risk becoming a pincushion.

 

They both stayed still.

 

Hanzo’s face screwed up with the effort of keeping the bow drawn, his teeth bared and eyebrows furrowed. His eyes, though. They looked sad. And McCree wilted, barrell lowering just a second or so before the arrow did. He clenched his jaw, staring at the bits of sand kicked up by the wind between them and unable to think of anything other than the way Hanzo had felt, soft beneath him. The warmth of the other man’s breath on his neck. Carding his fingers through that thick dark hair.

 

“What does this mean?” Hanzo demanded. He sounded frantic and somehow that hurt worse. “I cannot simply forfeit. I need--”

 

“Compensation, yeah, I know,” McCree nodded. He tugged his hat off and held it to his chest. “It’s the same here, darlin’.”

 

“Then…?” Hanzo tried again.

 

McCree shrugged helplessly and let his eyes drift off to the side of the tavern hall. Wanted posters were tacked up everywhere and some part of him lit up with glee when he saw that his own bounty had risen. But his heart skipped a beat when he saw Hanzo’s face on a fresh new poster beneath his own. With no meager price listed on his head, either.

 

“Ex-yakuza, eh?” McCree glanced over at Hanzo, grinning wickedly.

 

Hanzo spluttered, moving closer to McCree until he could see what the gunslinger was looking at. He scowled at the poster, apparently not pleased at his sketched likeness. But his eyebrows lifted when he saw McCree’s own mug smiling above his own.

 

“Former Deadlock,” Hanzo replied, amused. “This explains your taste in prosthetics.”

 

McCree laughed and was able to forget for a moment that they had had their weapons aimed at each other a moment prior.

 

“Hey,” McCree spoke slowly. “I dunno if your folks had any dabblin’ in arms deals--”

 

“The Shimada do not negotiate on a small scale, Jesse.”

 

“--right, _whatever_. But you do know how to negotiate?”

 

Hanzo raised a brow. “Not in polite company.”

 

Jesse’s grin widened. “Perfect. Follow my lead.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

To his credit, Hanzo only looked marginally surprised when Jesse met him in the bathroom with Stephen in tow. They had been chatting amiably until Jesse clicked the door shut behind them, flicking the lock closed. Stephen’s eyes went wide at the same time the toe of Jesse’s boot nudged the backs of his knees. The man fell to the ground with a harsh thump and stiffened when he heard the click of the gun behind his head.

 

“What--” Stephen stammered. “Everyone said you were fair! That you didn’t deal dirty--”

 

McCree laughed. “I’m fair as fair can be. Dunno ‘bout that second part.”

 

“It is hardly fair to ask a gun for hire to work for free, is it?” Hanzo added smoothly. Jesse had to hand it to him. He had the unflappable mob boss thing down to an art form. The way the man on the ground’s courage was sapped out of him with a single stern look from the archer was impressive as shit.

 

And that probably said something about McCree as a person that he’d never been more attracted to the other man.

 

He pulled the hammer of the gun back with his thumb, intentionally making sure the click was audible to Stephen.

 

“No! Please, _please_ , you don’t have to do this,” Stephen pleaded. “I have a wife. That ring, that ring is for my daughter--”

 

“Who has found someone special and you wish to gift it to her,” Hanzo concluded gracefully. “We are aware.”

 

“And really, if you make it outta here, give her our congratulations,” Jesse added cheerfully. “Ain’t often you find that kind of connection. S’rare.”

 

Hanzo gave him the briefest of smiles, but Jesse caught it and beamed back at him.

 

“Here is what you’re going to do,” Hanzo took a step forward, eyeing the man that flinched back coldly. Jesse nudged the back of his head with the gun to remind him, and he stilled again. Hanzo knelt down to his level, but kept that certain air about him that gave McCree chills. “You are going to take out your datapad and you are going to transfer the agreed upon amount to both Mister McCree and I.”

 

“Y-You want me to split the sum--?” Stephen babbled, scrambling for his datapad.

 

“No,” Hanzo reached out and snatched the man by the collar of his shirt. “You will transfer the agreed upon amount to _both_ Mister McCree _and_ I. Do you understand?”

 

“But…! That’s so much! I _can’t--_ ”

 

“Well that’s a damn shame, ain’t it Mister Shimada?” McCree said with an over-dramatic sigh. “S’pose we’ll just take that ring and pawn it off to the highest bidder. Betcha we could ransom a tip from that family o’ yours if we sent’em a couple of your fingers.”

 

Hanzo pulled a knife from the holster on his thigh and grabbed one of Stephen’s hands. “Would you prefer to be alive or dead when I take the first two?”

 

“Fine!” Stephen yelped. He tried to squirm away from the grasp pathetically and really, McCree had never seen negotiations end so quickly and so favorably. “I’ll send you the damn money!”

 

He shot Hanzo an approving nod.

 

Hanzo let go of the man’s hand and watched carefully as he tapped in the amounts, then hit the big green ‘SEND’ key. The little loading circle swirled once, twice, then replaced itself with a check-mark. Hanzo stood up again, satisfied. He untied the pouch from his belt and tossed it to the man still on the ground. Jesse holstered his gun again and watched amusedly as their former client shoved past him and frantically unlocked the bathroom door. He shouldered his way out so harshly that Jesse had to wonder if the man was gonna bruise, but frankly it wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

 

“Congratulations on a job completed,” Hanzo said, drawing his attention back. The yellow ribbon swished behind him as he walked over to Jesse and crowded him against the door. Jesse heard the lock click again and couldn’t stop the reflexive grin.

 

“Pretty decent turnout for our first client, partner,” Jesse said, not moving at all to help Hanzo close the gap between them. He raised an eyebrow challengingly. “Think we can earn a better tip than zero percent next time?”

 

Hanzo chuckled. “Assuming we do not make a habit of doubling our prices, it is probable.”

 

“Aw,” McCree pouted playfully. “And here I was thinkin’ that was the best profit margin I’d ever--”

 

Hanzo shut him up by kissing him and McCree, for once, didn’t mind the interruption.

 

Sure there were still radiation-mad omnics roaming the Wastes, and sure the Reef still sprawled ominously across the borders of it. There was no doubt that someday the radiation poison would catch up to them and require some hefty sum of doctors fees. And frankly, McCree knew next to nothing about the background of the man currently pressing open mouthed kisses down the line of his throat, nipping at the crook of his neck in the way that invariably pulled a groan from him.

 

But standing there with the best damn shot he’d ever seen and looking into those eyes that already knew him well enough?

 

Really, the world post nuclear winter wasn’t so bad. Jesse reached around Hanzo’s neck to fist his hand in the yellow ribbon until he tilted the archer’s head back enough to capture his lips in another fierce kiss.

 

 _Yeah_ , McCree thought, wrapping his metal arm around Hanzo’s torso and running metallic fingers up his side to make him shiver. _Not so bad._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much again, Madramaut!!! This was so much fun to write. I hope it lives up to expectations!


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